The Archives had not been designed for running. Tables, chairs, staff, visitors, and cases of priceless artifacts stood irregularly across acres of ancient stone and metal floor, with few long, straight pathways. Seris’ steps thumped, slid and clicked as she darted past a group of Knights, pirouetted to avoid hitting an ancient display of religious totems, ducked under the outstretched arms of an Archivist pointing further into the huge building. The movements and purpose cleared her mind, let her focus more on the [i]now[/i] rather than her sense of ever-growing dread. She vaulted over a long, narrow table without her feet touching the data pads still scattered on top, landed again, and as her feet hit the ground she felt her own thoughts start to slide more smoothly.

Ahead and behind, the Archives blazed with the bright fires of Jedi, each person pulling the Force into whirling, candescent patterns around themselves. Serenity, power, and righteousness radiated from them like heat from a thousand fires, lending the very air a sense of comfort, warmth, safety. Still, Seris could not deny the rising dread she felt in her heart, that she felt creeping over every part of the Archives like a layer of clinging fog. She saw how members of the Order reacted, felt the way their minds sharpened, their wills readied, power kept coiled inside them. She hadn’t been going mad, then. Still, her feelings were…formless, frustrating and vague, without direction. A foreboding, but nothing more concrete. She had heard stories of Jedi who could see into the future and pluck images from an endlessly churning chaos, but if those stories were true, Seris certainly didn’t know the trick.

She left one large study-room and turned down a corridor, her strides evening out, lengthening with a comparative lack of obstacles. She raced past a surprised Archivist, but elicited much less of a reaction from a Knight further down, her hand already on her weapon. Seris brushed past, turned another corner, and brought herself to a stop. She turned to her left, a familiar presence pulling the Force around themselves nearby, the feeling like old, strong trees. She would have smiled to herself, perhaps she should have - but something inside her couldn’t quite make her. Few Masters at the Temple seems to know what to make of Seris, and this one seemed to be no exception - but the Ithorian’s clear head and good nature certainly would hurt nothing, given the tension rippling through the Temple. Seris pushed off the wall, turned down another set of corridors, her pace slowing from a run to a job, finally to a walk.

“Master Worror,” Seris said in reply to his greeting, a little winded from her run, “I’m glad to see you.” She swallowed, her blind gaze apparently off to one side, her expression concerned, “The samples I wanted to show you are on my ship but…I think there’s something more important right now. I feel…I feel like there’s something coming. Something…creeping, sickly, coming up all around, like…like fog from cold ground. I don’t know what to make of it.” Seris shook her head.

“I think there are others feeling the same thing,” Seris continued, her voice steady but concerned, “I…I feel the…dread, I suppose, sinking into them. I certainly feel it happening to me.” She swallowed again, cleared her throat, “I’m…sure you’ve felt what I’m talking about, this…tension. Can you tell me what this is? What’s going on?”